Half a Step Behind
by paperstorm
Summary: A tag for the episode 'Nightmare', 1x14. Wincest. Part of my Deleted Scenes series.


**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Nightmare', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Sera Gamble.  
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**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)**

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><p>All in all, today hasn't been one of Sam's better days. It might even be one of his worst days, right up there with the day Jess died and the day he told Dean he was going away to school and the day Dad told him never to come back. Max is dead. Roger Miller is dead and Jim Miller is dead and Max Miller is dead and Alice Miller's life is completely ruined, and Sam's never felt like such a total and utter failure in his entire life. His job is to save people, or that's <em>supposed<em> to be his job, anyway. And today, the final count hit four people whose lives were ruined because Sam couldn't stop it from happening. He should have been able to. Two of them, he saw die in the exact way they ended up dying, and he tried but he couldn't get to them in time. The other two, or Max at least, Sam should have been able to talk off the ledge. And he couldn't. Or, didn't. Sam's convinced he _could_ have if he'd just tried harder, if he'd only known what to say.

Regardless, three people are dead and one lost her entire family in only a few days. And it isn't exactly Sam's _fault_, but the point still remains that he had the chance to save them and he didn't. He should have been able to help Max, to get through to him and get him the help he needed. Instead, Sam stood there helplessly and watched as the first person he's truly related to in a long time turned a loaded gun on himself and pulled the trigger. The visual is burned behind Sam's eyelids. And, the glaring similarities between him and Max have Sam nothing short of freaked the hell out. All this time, he thought what happened to his mom was just by chance; just a demon or a spirit or whatever doing what they do best – random violence. Lives torn apart just for the sake of it. It was harder to keep believing that after Jessica's death, and now it seems impossible. But the thought that there might be a reason Sam's family was targeted, some kind of pattern that links his family with the Millers; Sam doesn't know how to feel about that.

"Dean, I've been thinking," he starts.

"Well that's never a good thing," Dean replies with a sardonic smile.

"I'm serious. I've been thinking, why would this demon, or whatever it is, why would it kill mom and Jessica and Max's mother, you know? What does it want?"

"No idea."

"Well, you think maybe it was after us? After Max and me?"

Dean frowns. "Why would you think that?"

Sam sighs. "I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions, we both had abilities, you know? Maybe it was after us for some reason."

"Sam, if it wanted you it would have just taken you, okay? This is not your fault. It's not about you." Dean's eyes are wide and serious, and Sam doesn't miss the very purposeful 'it's not your fault' he throws in. Dean's trying to make him feel better, to protect him, and Sam appreciates the effort, but it doesn't really work.

"Then what is it about?"

"It's about that damn thing that did this to our family! The thing that we're gonna find, the thing that we're gonna kill. And that's all," Dean says firmly.

"Actually, there's, uh, there's something else too," Sam admits reluctantly.

"Oh jeez, what?"

"When Max locked me in that closet, with that big cabinet against the door, I moved it."

"Huh. You got a little bit more upper-body strength than I gave you credit for," Dean jokes.

Sam exhales exasperatedly. "No, man, I moved it, like Max."

Dean's face falls. "Oh. Right."

"Yeah," Sam mumbles. He watches Dean warily; he'd been really apprehensive about telling Dean that because he didn't know how his brother would take it. The thing Sam wants the least in the world is Dean thinking he's some kind of freak. Well, _more_ of a freak.

Dean picks up a spoon and holds it up. "Bend this."

Sam shoots him an annoyed look. "I can't turn it on and off, Dean!"

"Well how'd you do it?"

"I don't know! I can't control it, it just … I saw you die, and it just came out of me, like a – like a punch. You know, like a freak adrenaline thing."

Dean tosses the spoon back onto the desk and shoves his suit jacket into his bag. "Well, I'm sure it won't happen again."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam mutters. "Aren't you worried, man? Aren't you worried that I could turn into Max or somethin'?"

Dean starts folding a pair of jeans and shakes his head. "Nope. No way. You know why?"

"No, why?"

"Cause you got one advantage that Max didn't have."

"Dad? Because Dad's not here, Dean."

"No, me. 'Long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you," Dean says, with an easy smile, like it all really is that simple. "Now then, I know what we need to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go."

"Where?" Sam's heart speeds up just a little, instinctively happy at the thought that his brother knows what to do. Sometimes Sam misses the days when his big brother had all the answers. But Dean just grins, says, "Vegas," and Sam's spirits fall again. He huffs in disbelief that Dean is actually joking right now, and he spins on his heel and walks out of the room.

"What? C'mon, man!" Dean calls after him. "Craps table? We'd clean up!"

Sam ignores him, shoving his bag into the trunk and getting into the passenger's seat, slamming the door behind him. Dean is unbelievable. Sam's really worried about all this, and he's really upset and frustrated and just plain sad that he couldn't help Max, couldn't stop him from killing his father and his uncle and himself, and Dean thinks he's being funny. Sometimes, he's really an asshole.

"Dude, I was just kidding, chill," Dean says as he drops down into his seat.

"Just drive," Sam mutters stiffly.

Dean sighs. "C'mon, Sammy, don't be like that. It was a joke, okay? You've got that puppy dog look all over your face, look like your best friend just died or somethin'. I was just try'na make you smile."

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly feel like joking right now, Dean."

"Yeah, I got that."

"I had the chance to save _three people_ in the last few days, and I didn't save one!" Sam points out angrily. "So excuse me if I'm not in the mood for your endless wit."

"Can I help it if I'm hilarious?" Dean asks wryly.

Sam stares straight ahead, and Dean sighs again and growls in frustration.

"God, I'm sorry, alright? I didn't realize you were this upset. I was just trying to lighten the mood, I didn't … what do you want from me?"

"I want you to take this seriously!" Sam snaps. "I want you to _care_ that there might be something seriously wrong with me!"

"I do care!" Dean cries. "How can you even think that? Of course I care."

"Well then act like it!"

"Sam – "

"You know, I like to think I know you pretty well," Sam interrupts. "I know sometimes you shrug things like this off because you don't know how to deal with them any other way, but I can only watch you pretending none of this affects you for so long before I start thinking maybe it really _doesn't_ affect you!"

"I just don't feel the need to discuss everything until we're blue in the face!" Dean returns. "But that doesn't mean I don't care about what's happening to you! Look … fuck. I don't want us to fight, we had a shitty enough day already without being pissed at each other too. So c'mon, if you wanna talk about this then let's go back into the room and talk about it."

Sam glares at him. "We already checked out."

"So we'll pay for another night. We don't have another hunt lined up, we got nowhere to be."

Sam raises an eyebrow, but Dean actually looks mostly sincere, so he heaves a sigh and gets out of the car. Dean follows him back into the room, closing the door behind them and managing to look at least a little apologetic even though Sam can tell he really _doesn't_ want to be talking about this, regardless of what he said. Dean's philosophy in these situations is to laugh it off like it's nothing and pretend it didn't happen, but that really doesn't work for Sam. Although, even though Sam knows Dean's as freaked out as he is about all this, he's not sure he'll be able to get Dean to admit it, so it might be pointless anyway. Just because Sam's crazy about him, doesn't mean for one second his brother doesn't still irritate the hell out of him.

"So, talk," Dean says quietly.

"What is there to say?" Sam asks heavily. "Max's mom was clearly killed by the same thing that killed our mom, and he developed psychic abilities six months ago just like me, so obviously there's a connection between us, but you don't seem to wanna bother finding out what it is. Not that it would matter anyway, because Max is dead so now we may never find it."

"Whoa, whoa, wait. No." Dean holds up a hand to stop Sam. "No, that's not it at all. I _do_ want to find out what the connection is. What I don't want, is you thinking that what happened today is your fault. What I don't want, is you putting too much emphasis on what Max did and then worrying you're going to turn out like him."

"I _could_ turn out like him," Sam points out.

"No you couldn't."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because you're not him!"

"Yeah, well from where I'm standing, we're pretty damn similar!"

Dean exhales slowly and shakes his head, a pained little frown twisting his features. "Well then you need to stand where I'm standing."

"What the hell does that mean?" Sam snaps in annoyance.

"It means that Max didn't have what you have."

"What, you mean you?" Sam doesn't mean to scoff, and feels instantly bad about it at the wounded look on his brother's face.

"Yeah, I mean me." Dean looks a little angry, but he also looks determined. When he speaks, his words are slow and careful, like it's really important to him that Sam hear what he's saying. "Max was all alone, Sam. He had a dad who hit him and a stepmom who pretended not to notice. He was completely alone in a world where everyone he should have been able to trust treated him like dirt. It's no wonder he snapped, okay? But you've got people who care about you, people who'd die before they ever hurt you. And yeah, you've got me. I'm lookin' out for you, like I always have."

Sam's chest tightens and he blinks back tears, and Dean steps closer to him and tentatively curls his fingers over Sam's biceps. "You really think that's gonna help?" he asks softly.

"Sammy, listen to me. Max was troubled, even before the whole psychic thing. Way before. He had all this pain, and fear and anger and grief, and he had to deal with it by himself. You don't. Something bad happens, I'm right here with you. To talk about it, or scream about it, or shit, to just kiss you and make you forget for a little while."

Sam closes his eyes against a sudden fresh wave of emotion. He wasn't expecting Dean to be so sweet and gentle about this, and his brother's sympathy and understanding is just breaking Sam down further. He leans down to rest his forehead against Dean's, his arms reaching out to wrap around Dean's waist, and Dean slides his hands up into Sam's hair.

"I'm scared, Dean," he admits quietly. Even in his own head, he sounds tragically pathetic. Like a little kid clinging to his big brother during a scary movie. But Sam really is scared; scared of what's happening to him and scared of what happened to Max and the overwhelming possibility that he could end up the same way. And clinging to his big brother is the only thing Sam has left.

"I know," Dean soothes. "We'll figure this out, okay? I promise. I just don't want you getting ahead of yourself."

"Meaning what?"

Dean answers slowly, like he's choosing his words carefully. "Meaning you're very … passionate. You've got a bit of a one-track mind, and sometimes it makes you reckless."

"So you're saying I'm not a good hunter," Sam sums up.

"No, god, not even close. You're a great hunter," Dean insists, brushing the backs on his knuckles along Sam's jaw. "But this isn't a hunt, Sam. This is about us, our family, _you_. This is personal. We need to regroup a little before we dive into this one, don't you think? All we've got, here, is two moms dying in a fire and two kids with freaky brain powers. I mean, you're right, it's definitely _something_, but it's not enough to start wigging out over, not yet anyway. Not until we have more to go on."

Sam sighs. "I … yeah. I guess so. When the hell did you get so rational?"

Dean chuckles. "See, I've got this thing. This little brother, been watchin' out for him my whole life. And he's a little shit but he kinda means everything to me. I can be the level-headed one when he needs me to be."

Sam manages a small smile. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks. For … well, just, thanks."

"Any time," Dean promises, leaning up and kissing Sam softly. He probably means to keep it brief and chaste but Sam deepens it, needing the comfort only Dean can give him after the complete disaster of a hunt they just went through. He really, really wanted to help Max, and the fact that he couldn't is weighing more heavily on his conscience than he's willing to admit. The soft warmth of Dean's lips against his is more soothing than Sam could ever say. Dean seems to get it, though; petting through Sam's hair with one hand and dropping the other one down to cup Sam's hip under his shirt. "Wanna stay another night?" he asks, walking them slowly back to the bed.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, following Dean down onto the mattress and slotting their bodies together. Dean rocks his hips up into Sam's, and Sam's spine tingles with the familiarly needy, desperate brand of pleasure that he knows all too well.

"You did the best you could for him," Dean whispers into Sam's lips, somehow knowing exactly what Sam needs to hear like he always does. "He was too far gone, but you tried. That's more than most people would have done."

"Okay," Sam answers, dipping his head down to lick at Dean's neck, partly because Dean likes that but mostly because then Sam can bury his face in Dean's shoulder without it seeming like that's what he's doing. But Dean knows exactly what he's doing, like Sam should have known he would.

"Hey, it's okay," Dean murmurs. "I got you."

"It's fine, I'm fine," Sam insists, but Dean huffs impatiently and disbelievingly and slides his arms around Sam's back, one palm cupping the back of Sam's neck and guiding Sam's head down so his forehead is resting against Dean's skin.

"We saw a kid your age take his own life just a few hours ago," he argues gently. "A human, not a monster. You don't have to _be _fine after that. Not for me."

Sam sighs shakily, inhaling the familiar scent of Old Spice and leather and Dean, and gives in, relaxing into Dean's arms. Dean kisses his temple and holds him tightly, and only then does Sam finally starts to feel a little bit better.


End file.
